


home is where the heart is

by kingblake



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-11-02 09:15:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10941459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingblake/pseuds/kingblake
Summary: Bellamy grabs her arm and pulls her into the hole in the ground just as the first few fat raindrops splash to the ground outside, and they reach forwards together and slam the door shut. They're engulfed in darkness, and Bellamy curses. They don't have lanterns. They're stuck in the dark until the rain runs its course.— or —Bellamy and Clarke lock themselves in a dark bunker. What happens next?





	home is where the heart is

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notwanheda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notwanheda/gifts).



> helloooo!! this idea came to me during math class n i just HAD to jot it down bc i loved it so much so i hope u enjoy!!! i hope it's not too short :')

Clarke can't help but wonder how Bellamy does it. One minute they're walking peacefully, listening to the noises of the forest, and the next, he's veered off course, drawn by a clump of flowers or an oddly-shaped tree. "Bellamy," she says sharply, and he stares at her with a sheepish smile. "Quit getting distracted. We have to find food for Polis."

He rises, wiping his hands on his pants, and jogs back over to her, strangely cheerful given the circumstances. "Sorry," he says. "Just trying to get my fill of nature before I have to go underground for five years." He shivers visibly, shaking his head. "And I thought being in space was bad."

Clarke bumps his shoulder with her own. "No worries," she says with a grin, startling and strange on her face. She hasn't smiled in weeks. Months, even. Bellamy can't help but offer his own, mouth pulling back with ease. "It's hard to believe you were a janitor on the Ark," she says playfully, and his smile melts into a glare.

She raises her hands defensively. "I'm just saying you would have made a great botanist. Or teacher." His shoulders relax, and he pushes a hand through his mess of black hair.

"Kind of hard to find a good job when you're hiding a kid in the floor," he says, and she can hear the disgust in his voice, the hatred. But his shoulders fall back and he tips his head towards the sky, eyeing the thunderclouds forming overhead. "You've gotta stay off the radar, you know? Nobody cares about the janitor." He brushes his knuckles across the knot of a tree as he passes, and Clarke can't help but notice the rough skin of his palms, calloused and knotted from years of abuse.

"I'm sorry," is all Clarke says, but she can tell that it's enough. He eyes her carefully, his expression almost unreadable, but his hands unclench, and that's what matters. "Either way," she hedges, "you would have made a good teacher. People listen to you." She hikes her leg up to step over a fallen tree, then turns and extends her hand, helping Bellamy over.

He drops to the ground behind the tree with a muffled thud, and they continue on, walking in silence until thunder rumbles overhead and lightning cracks in the distance. The air is fat, pregnant with impending doom, and Clarke tenses, blood roaring. There can't be black rain — not now. There's nowhere for them to hide, nowhere for them to clean off. They have to find shelter fast, before the rain begins, and she can see that Bellamy's thinking the same; his brow is pulled down, his mouth tight with worry.

She grabs his arm. "Shelter," she says, and Bellamy nods. He looks around, frowning, and Clarke is confused for a moment before she realizes, with bone-shattering clarity, that she's _been_ here before. Before Bellamy has time to get a word in edgewise she's broken into a run, dashing between a few trees and thundering past two massive rocks. Judging by the thudding footsteps behind her she knows Bellamy's close, and when she skids to a halt near an overgrown patch of grass, she knows he's caught on to her idea.

Air hisses through his teeth as he sifts through the long grass, pushing it away to reveal a heavy metal door, rimmed with rust and sealed with a tarnished steel latch. With some effort, he lifts the latch and together they haul the door open, muscles aching. The bunker, she remembers. The one where they first found their guns.

Bellamy grabs her arm and pulls her into the hole in the ground just as the first few fat raindrops splash to the ground outside, and they reach forwards together and slam the door shut. They're engulfed in darkness, and Bellamy curses. They don't have lanterns. They're stuck in the dark until the rain runs its course.

Bellamy's arm is hot beside her, and as he turns, he almost knocks her off the stairs. Letting out a girlish shriek, she blindly grabs for the front of his shirt, slamming herself flush against him to keep herself from falling to her death. His arms fly out above him, bracing against the wall, and a low rumble begins in his chest, just underneath Clarke's hand.

She's worried, but only for a moment, because the rumbling grows louder and then he's laughing, shoulders shaking against her own. The sound of his laugh reverberates somewhere deep within her and she begins to laugh as well, breathless and strange in her throat. After a moment Bellamy pulls himself carefully away and they continue down the stairs.

Clarke's laughter is silenced by the daunting challenge in front of them. She can't navigate herself through here, not without light. Bracing her hands against the wall, she follows it to a long, branching corridor, and Bellamy is close behind her, kicking the air every few seconds to make sure there aren't any barrels of oil they should be worried about.

They're making good progress until Bellamy kicks out in front of them and a loud crash rattles through the bunker. Once the crash subsides, the air is quiet. And then, softly, so softly she almost doesn't hear —

"Fuck."

Bellamy has moved off to her right, across the hallway, and he's laughing again, the noise foreign. "I kicked over an oil drum," he says breathlessly. There's a flutter of movement, and then Clarke shrieks as his hands — _covered in oil_ — close around her cheeks. She batters his hands away, shivering, and smiles through the darkness at his blurry, almost imperceptible form.

She scrapes some oil from her cheek with the palm of her hand and returns the favor, dragging her fingers across his cheekbone. This time it's his turn to make noise, and he yelps like he's been burned and jumps away, feet landing hard in a puddle of oil. It splashes across Clarke's legs and she scowls, turning back to the wall. "Serves you right," she says, shaking her head and testing the wall with her fingertips. "Kicking around like a horse."

Bellamy appears behind her, his fingers brushing her own as he feels the wall. "Kicking around like a horse," he mocks, voice twisted into a mangled falsetto. They walk a little farther, out of reach of the spilled oil, and then Bellamy stops, presses his back against the wall, and slides down like his legs have stopped working. Granted, Clarke's legs are hurting, but they might as well explore while they're here. The bunker could be useful, in case —

She gasps as a hand wraps loosely around her calf. Bellamy's pulling her down, and she stumbles into a sitting position next to him, her knee pressed against his own. She can't see him, no, not in the darkness, but she can feel him, the exhaustion in his frame and the release that rolls off him in waves.

Bellamy thumps his head against the wall. "Rest time," he says. "My legs hurt." Clarke scowls.

"And that gives you license to stop _me_ , too?"

His knee bumps her own. She turns to look at his blurry outline and she swears he's turned his head away. "Bad things happen in the dark," he says softly, shyly, and Clarke can't help but laugh.

"Oh, poor _baby_ ," she says, pouting her lips. His knee bumps hers again, harder.

"Really!" He says, his voice rising an octave. "Remember the reapers? We about pissed ourselves running away from them."

And then suddenly the memory seems funny, funny enough that they laugh and laugh and laugh until their sides hurt and their fingertips tingle with excitement.

Thunder rumbles overhead. Clarke leans her head back, and for a moment she's reminded of the time they'd fought together, of the time Bellamy asked her to run away with him. They'd sat just like this, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. They'd both been covered in blood, of course, but the gesture is so familiar and comforting that Clarke lets out an easy sigh and tips her head over, resting the crown of her forehead against Bellamy's shoulder.

He tenses, only momentarily, before his hand finds the top of her own and he begins to trace little circles into her worn skin.

"I don't want to be underground for five years," Bellamy rumbles, and Clarke agrees.

"I know," she replies evenly. "None of us do." He squeezes her hand, and the action is so normal, so _human_ , that her breath catches in her throat. "We'll survive, Bellamy." She lifts her head, trying to find his face in the darkness. "We always do."

Bellamy lets out a light laugh, his breath ghosting across her cheek. The simple nearness of him in itself is comforting, and she wants to melt into him, to never have to make another decision again. She hasn't had a friend like this in so long. Not since Wells, not since the Ark, and it feels _good_. She squeezes his hand, parroting his laugh, and the corridor is silent once more as the two of them match heartbeat for heartbeat, breath for breath.

Bellamy is quiet. Then he turns, one hand drifting towards her face, and she feels it in her bones when his calloused palm cups the curve of her cheek. "Clarke," he says quietly, and she's so chillingly calm, so disturbingly at _peace_ , that she turns her head to face him, heat flooding her body.

His fingers curl against her face, pulling her closer, and her hands drift to his chest, palms pressing flat against the hard planes of muscle beneath his roughspun coat. She can just barely see his face now that they're so close, and his mouth is open just slightly, his eyes hooded. Clarke bites her lip.

There's too much left unspoken between them, too many words she doesn't know how to say. She remembers how nice his arms felt around her, the first time they hugged. She remembers how his arms, corded with muscle and scarred with survival, wound around her and lifted her practically off her feet while Octavia stood by.

She remembers the feeling of home, the feeling of complete and utter peace. How for a moment, just a _moment_ , she was able to forget about the mountain men and the grounders and the sacrifice and the blood. And she feels it now, his mouth inches from her own, his fingers light as butterflies against her cheek. His chest heaves beneath her hands, like he's having trouble breathing, and she can feel his heartbeat, fluttering like a bird's under her fingers. She almost laughs.

Almost.

And then he tips his head down, and she lifts her own to meet him, and his mouth meets her in a flurry of heat and want and relief. She barely registers the feeling of his opposite hand tucking itself into her hair, just like she barely registers the fact that her fingers are curled into fists, clinging to the front of his coat, tugging him towards her like her life depends on it.

And he does the same. His hand cradles the back of her head as they find themselves slipping towards the floor, and soon he's propped between her knees and he's beside her, above her, and all around her. He kisses her fiercely, like he's been waiting for her his whole life, and she gasps into his hair as his kisses move down, touching her jaw, her throat, her collarbones.

And then he's gone. He pulls away from her like he's been slapped and she can't see him anymore, can't even hear his breathing as he slides away from her. She sits up carefully, squinting into the darkness.

"Bellamy?" She asks, and her voice is raw, starved.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice far away. She stands and creeps towards it until her boots thump against the mass of his legs. "I didn't mean for it to be like this." Thunder cracks overhead and the bunker whines.

"Like what?" Clarke asks, even though all she can think about is the feeling of his mouth against her neck.

"In the dark," he says quietly, and she feels him rise to meet her, his hands trailing up the sides of her body as he lifts himself off the floor. "Covered in oil." His palm finds her cheek again and she leans into his touch, warm and comforting. He laughs. "I imagined kissing you in the rain. Or under a rainbow. Not in a bunker, in the dark, underground."

Clarke loops her arms around his waist and pulls him forwards, and his heart is beating fast against her cheek as she wraps him in a hug. "Bellamy," she says softly as his arms circle her shoulders. He tucks his face into the space between her shoulder and her chin and kisses the skin there, gentle and warm and everything Clarke has been craving for so long.

She grits her teeth. "Bellamy," she says again, one hand sliding into his hair. His hand presses against the small of her back, tugging her closer, as close as she can get. Their bodies are flush against one another in the darkness of the tunnel, and despite the pitch black, Clarke swears she can see every inch of him, every scar and muscle and freckle. "I don't mind," she finally gasps out, because his mouth is against her ear now, trailing down her neck, his kisses urgent and desperate.

"I don't mind at all." Her fingers tighten against his scalp and she feels a shudder pass through him. He laughs, voice hoarse.

"Christ," he says quickly, pulling away from her again. "That's not fair, Clarke." He takes a step back.

Clarke frowns, her cheeks hot. "What?" She says, and she's horrified to hear that her voice is almost a whine. She desperately hopes he doesn't notice.

"You can't just —" he sighs, and she can see his outline blur and move as he waves his arms in a less-than descriptive gesture. His hand darts forwards again, and she feels it push through her hair, mussing up the tiny braids she'd pinned up that morning. And then she feels what he's talking about, because the rough scrape of his scars and calluses across her scalp sends an involuntary shiver down her spine. Thunder rumbles outside again, but it's quieter. Subdued.

She laughs breathlessly. "Oh," she says, leaning forwards on her toes. She makes a grab for one of his hands and leads him down the hall. They move quicker this time, and Clarke's feet remember the way, because soon her toes collide with a set of stairs and a sliver of sunlight just above her. Bellamy sees it too, because suddenly he moves past her, testing the lip of the door with his fingertip.

He frowns. "It's regular rain," he says with a laugh. "It's not acid." He shoulders the door, grunting with the effort, and shoves it open. They both squint against the light, and he turns, shrugging. The rain has stopped. The clouds are parting, thankfully, which means they will likely have a safe passage home. It's only when they step outside again, though, when Clarke begins to laugh.

Bellamy's face is flushed, his hair tousled in odd places around his head. His coat is hanging awkwardly off of one shoulder and his hands are restless, on the move, fiddling with buttons and zippers and the pistol holstered at his hip. Clarke grins and takes a step towards him, and when his eyes land on her, his pupils are blown wide, black almost engulfing the brown of his irises.

"Look," she says, peering over his shoulder at a spray of color splashing through the sky. She takes his face between her hands and he smiles a little, his cheeks warming under her palms. "A rainbow," she murmurs, then brings her mouth back to his own.

And he kisses her, long, deep, gentle, under the rainbow. Outside, after the rain, with the sun on their skin and dirt under their fingernails.

And it feels like home.

**Author's Note:**

> lemme know what u think!! thanks for reading!! catch me on twitter @kaszbrekker


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